The Lucifer Sanction Read Online Free

casket. “Hmm, Dominic Moreau, a
Frenchman, but his attire appears to be English, maybe 14 th century.”
“Do you think there are more of these people
further inside of this thing?” the Blick man asked as he
unenthusiastically peered into the distance. “Maybe there’s
some clue as to what this all means.”
Drummond considered the comment. He’s right , he
thought. We should move ahead, search further, come back
to this later. Maybe there are answers farther inside.
The Scot allowed a half-minute to pass while
continuing to study the costumed man inside the cylinder.
“Aye, laddie, we can come back to this room later,” and he
evaded Fellini’s nod. “So eh - let’s move farther along the
passageway.”
Craig Drummond gave an approving half-smile
to Fellini. He admired his bravado, a quality he himself
had once possessed. But that Indiana Jones persona was
long gone. The Scot had developed a conservative manner,
arriving at decisions with much trepidation unlike his
young prodigies - unlike Fellini. There was a large dose of
envy inside Craig Drummond and he wondered how far he
would venture if he were alone in this environment.
He stared into the near blackness of the passageway,
his mind chewing on itself. Fellini gave a look, and the
doctor, feeling his querying eyes returned the expression.
They stopped as the beam of Drummond’s flashlight
illuminated another large door seemingly designed to
accommodate wider objects, a wider opening similar to
those found in medical facilities.
“Go ahead, open it,” Fellini said, as he raised the
viewfinder to his eye.
Drummond paused momentarily then gingerly
turned the handle. A moment of hesitation was followed by
a barely audible click.
“It’s a stairwell,” Portman whispered.
“It looks, eh - sinister,” the Blick man said, “as
though it’s separate to what we’ve seen so far.”
Drummond descended, his eyes tracking the flashlight beam as it snaked along the edge of each step, his
mind hovering someplace between euphoria and terror. He
pressed his body to the wall, uneasy as he took the final
steps. The beam crept along a section of wall and finally
came to rest on what appeared to be the door of a freezer.
“I’m feeling bad about this,” Mateo muttered, a
few paces behind Drummond. “Maybe we should leave it
until tomorrow. Who knows, it might be safer to have some
military or . . .” and he paused for several long seconds,
hoping another of the group would finish the sentence.
Silence.
“Maybe we should have some cops with us,” Mateo
concluded. “What if there . . .”
They were hit hard by a blast of rank, icy air that
carried the now familiar odor of preservative. Drummond
jumped back, almost tumbling over Ansell Portman. They
regrouped and Drummond pointed the flashlight into the
blackness, directing the beam at two additional cylindrical
containers.
“This one here . . .” and he lightly touched the
nearest cylinder, “. . . is much smaller than the others.”
“It appears to be empty,” the Blick man exclaimed.
“Turn the camera off for God’s sake, laddie,”
Drummond snapped. “Give a man some space here.”
Aggravated by the Blick man’s insensitivity, the
Scot impatiently moved around the casket, lost his footing
on the damp floor, slipped, fell, and winced as his helmetlight flickered on impact and died.
A shiny object caught his eye. His voice gained a
tone of excitement. “Shine the light there . . . right there
in the corner of the casing, on that red thing,” Drummond
whispered. “My God, it looks like a dog’s collar. I can see
the tags,” and the doctor reached for the collar and read the
faded engraving.
“What’s it say?” Portman asked.
“Hmm, it says Bruno.”
Portman: “But why’s it empty?”
Fellini: “Where’s the dog that wore the collar?”
“Dunno. But one thing’s for sure,” Drummond
replied, “it didn’t disintegrate like those two poor